Keys of Babylon (30 page)

But Aadam too is dead. He is dead with all the others. I remember a party of diplomats arrived once, unannounced. We sold them dates and maps. But they wanted to see Babel, they said. They wanted to see where the tower stood, where languages coiled like water snakes in the river below.

Certainly, said Aadam. So we locked the gate and took them outside the city walls, climbing high over the dunes, beyond the mosque of Ali, the women stumbling in their scarves and pashminas, the men in sunglasses, silk ties. And by and by we came to the crater, the quarry where Babel had been and still was.

Here, said Aadam. Here. Look.

And he pointed down to the last bricks, the Babel bricks, mudbricks they were of a shepherd's hovel, a few wretched walls where some beggar might spend the night and shit in the morning and wander on, blind with raki, soon to die.

Of course, the Babel babes didn't like it. The men in Ray Bans, they had come a long way, they said. And they didn't like it either. Yes, they hated this pisspoor and silent Babel we showed them. Hated it so much they refused to pay Aadam. And we all trekked back across the sand, sand in our shoes, sand in our hair, no one saying a word. Only Aadam, who was whispering to me as we led the way back. Never seek out trouble, he hissed. It is already on its way.

Tonight it is too hot to sleep. Even with its marble floor this room will be intolerable for the guests when they arrive. But when I stand at the desk in the foyer, the managers have explained to me that a great golden propeller will rotate above my head. That the air will smell of almonds. And maybe, I think, the air con will moan like the uwd as the elevators rise and fall through this labyrinth that the crocodile built and never visited. Yes, its breath will surround me, cool as the midnight Euphrates, tugging at the key that I carry upon my heart.

August 13, 9 p.m. The Travellers' Club, Pall Mall, London

They looked at me and I didn't flinch. No, not once. That's the first time I've ever used that word. Already I think I love it.
Flinch
. Almost a finch. Ha ha.

Last year, last week, I'd have, yes, flinched. Oh yes. But now things have to be different. So when those Nigerian hospital workers and the scrawny, squint-eyed, shifty Albanians stared at me, I didn't flinch. No sir. I just stared back. Just ignored them all. But gave this fit black girl a great look. And she glanced away. Yes, she flinched. But then she glanced back and smiled. And I smiled too. And then I gave her another of my new great looks. And she turned away again with this gorgeous grin on her face.

And then we were at Marble Arch and I was getting off. Getting off in my tuxedo on a summer evening, a man in a shiny black suit and red dickie bow, the crowds passing, the Greendown workers in their tabards trailing across Hyde Park, and me diverting to Speakers' Corner. Just to stand there. At the centre of the world. Just to whisper
actually Alice
,
I'm not boring at all.

Got off there so I could stroll down Oxford Street. Strange to say, I'd never done that walk before. But it was a warm evening and the crowds seemed to part for my black suit and my red tie. Yes, that's what clothes do. Maketh the man. And on I went, all the way down and through Soho. At my own pace. With all the time in the world, saying
actually Alice
to myself, because I liked the sound of it. Actually Alice, the red buses, the black cabs, the swarms upon swarms of stressed-out faces coming out of the pit at Tottenham Court Road, they all seemed to pause and let me through. And on I went, across Piccadilly with the foreign students under Eros in each other's arms, and on into Regent Street, and I found it no problem at all. The Captain's Cabin.

A pub I'd never heard of. I had imagined John would say the Red Lion. Now that's the famous one. That's your traditional English boozer in its cosy alleyway. But John's canny. So The Captain's Cabin it was. And there sat John at a corner table. On time for once. John dolled up. A black suit, a black tie. So I was pleased with myself for choosing red.

Well smart, he said, hefting the bitters off the bar.

Not so bad yourself, I said. But, actually Alice, I knew I was 1-0 up.

I stood my round, of course. There were a few hoorays in, tanking up. But we sat there in silence. Looking at our watches. Then John said it was time, so we went back out into the summer evening and walked over to Pall Mall.

Just me and John, smelling the air, feeling the thrill. The thrill of London. Cheaper than dexies and better for you. And I couldn't believe it. There I was in my tux and there were these other types in their tuxedos and their smart caz and their inherited bling. Just taking it all for granted.

Money? I could feel it up my arse. In my nostrils. Money and history and empire seducing me, and me wanting to be seduced. To be overwhelmed. Totally. These American kids passed us. All the correct brands. Their skin shining, their hair like hair that had been genetically improved. John looked at me. Outside the Royal Opera Arcade, pell-mell in Pall Mall, a race of warlike angels had come amongst us.

Clock them, he said, out of the corner of his mouth. Not a trace of doubt in their perfect teeth. The fears that infest us unknown in their blood.

We stepped aside as they strode ahead. In their white socks. In their imperious So Cals. Left us breathing the Tommy fucking Hilfiger of the master race.

Yes, you're right. I had a chaser with the second pint. Drop of Dutch. But that was two hours ago. And now I'm sitting by a roaring fire. Yes, a fire. In August. And my tie's awry and I'm full as an egg and there's a brandy in my hand and I'm thinking, this is it. The life.

But the occasion? Our birders' society annual dinner at the Travellers' Club, an arrangement that has lasted for one hundred and thirteen years. Mulligatawny, beef and roasters, spotted dick. Or lemon tart for the enfeebled. I had both.
Duw annwyl
, as my nan used to say.

John's off somewhere, pissed on the tawny port. Got into some argy bargy about this full Monty webcam thing. Seems the Royal has put a camera in a Montague's harrier's nest. Yeah, Britain's rarest raptor. On telly every night like
Big Brother,
but please, please, don't anyone tell me anything about Big Bro ever again. Actually Alice, I hate
BB
. So I backed John up on the Monty business. He's really outraged. There's a gang in front of another bloody fire in another bloody lounge, debating the rights and wrongs.

This Travellers' Club is a maze. All the African explorers were members, all the South Seas island hoppers, the Antarctic heroes. In this room there's a photo of some naked New Caledonians under their stone-age sky, drawings of painted Patagonians before they became extinct. Imagine it, running round bollock-naked on a glacier.

But it's Alice I'm thinking about. How she'd have loved this. The high life. Alice has a purple dress, just a sheath, all shimmery. I've seen her get into it, wriggling till it clings where it's supposed to cling. Very low cut at the back. Daring in fact, but Alice's back is her best feature. It tapers. Tapers like a candleflame. I've always told her that. Because she's a bit skinny up front, is old Alice. Two fried eggs.

Or she might have worn one of her short things, with black tights. Then, when Alice crosses her legs, she makes this rustling sound. Like something electric. Or a blackbird settling itself on the nest. It's just amazing, that rustle. You know, like the sound when a fire catches. When tinder takes.

I've been talking to Dave, the Kentish plover man, about Alice. You can see Kentish plovers all over the world but for Dave only Kent will do. So that's where you find Dave. On the pebbles at Dungeness. Training the binocs around St Mary's Bay. Even down the Old Kent Road. It's a quest, I suppose. Lots of the blokes here tonight have quests. There's Silvertown Clive and his overwintering whimbrels theory. Another chap says he's only interested in house sparrows. Most endangered London bird, he says. It's what London's all about, he says. Those little Cockney sparrers.

But as to Alice, well Dave listened and shrugged and said, yeah, women. That's what he said. And made a farting noise with his armpit. Forget her, he said. And remember this, he said. This club forbids women membership. Why do you think that is? So think on, my friend, he said. Think on.

And you know? Maybe that's what I'm going to do. Forget Alice. But I can see her crossing her legs and hear that electricity she makes, and when I remember everything we had, it's bloody hard.

John just passed through. Stuck a reciprocal brandy on the table for me, and is now showing off one of his ledgers. Seems there's an anomaly with a Sussex shrike. That's another word I like.
Shrike. A shriek. A strike
. Another word I never used till I met John, John who must be up at 4 a.m. tomorrow to tell the sorters where Minchinhampton is, or Zoffany Street. Back on the morning shift. His choice.

Zoffany, by the way, is where John and his mum live. It's also the last street in the London A to Z. As John keeps reminding me. Quite the traveller was old Zoffany. Shipwrecked on a desert island, he and the survivors cooked and ate a cabin boy. Straight up. Would have been right at home here.

There are birds at the Travellers' Club of course. Painting of a Great Auk, photo of a wandering albatross. And the mementoes of all these geezers who just had to get up and go.

But me? I can't move from this leather chair. If there was an emergency, I couldn't budge. I'd sit here with all these books about aristocrats starving to death in the Thar desert, the plant hunters with seeds sewn into their clothes, or some toff sailing to Blighty with fifteen different tropical diseases in his blood and the feathers of a bird of paradise in his trunk.

But now Kentish Dave the plover lover is back again with a print-out of all his sightings. And here's a funny thing. Somehow my red dickie bow's come off. Somehow it's knotted itself around my fist. I hope it's not against club rules.

August 13, 11 p.m. York Place, Bridgend, Wales

Dear o Dear o Dear Kazia

Because it's another Red Square moment. Sorry. But you know me. You know me better than anyone, don't you Kaz? You haven't written because of the wedding preparations. But I'll be there. Not sure yet if I'm coming on the coach or getting the Wrocklaw flight, then bussing it. But I'll be there. I'm so looking forward to it all.

But maid of honour? Rather spinsterish, don't you think, Kaz? Not that spinsterishness appals. No, spinsters intrigue. And do they spin or weave? Was Rumpelstiltskin a spinster? Was Shane Warne? Oh well.

Whatever, spinsters are sexier than just about anyone. I see myself with irongrey hair and a red headscarf, my bicycle bumping over the Kazimerz cobbles, haiku and a pot of basil in the wicker basket. I have a flat, with hollyhocks in a tiny garden. And I'm rather bad. Yes, bad. Which means good, of course. I'm on my way for an alcoholic supper at Alchemia after a great day's
Hard Expectations
at the Jag. I'm meeting a student with pale skin and long eyelashes. Sex indeterminate, but I think she's a he. Not that I'll be fussy by then. Hey, maybe I'm not now? Oops. Erase that.

Yes, maybe I'll have a reputation. Not safe in seminars. Keep the door open. O dear o dear Kazia, do you think I'm normal? I think I'm normal. But normal's not normal now. It's just I don't fancy the big bollocky men in their big bollocky Asda jeans. With their bollocky bull terriers. I like my meat lean, Kazia. As you do.

That's why I've noticed Virgilijs in the fair. Sometimes I watch him go round on the waltzer, round and round till my head is spinning, that's one spinster clocking another, Kaz, and it's like I've finished another vod! But then the ride slows down and Virgilijs is not a blur anymore. There he is, laughing at me, helping the children out of their seats. Like a kind schoolteacher.

He lives with Petr in a caravan in the Backs. Suicide Alley they call it, just off the Ghetto. It's so horrible there, it's rancid, Kaz. I thought the caravan would be utter squalor. But they've made it beautiful inside. There's no shower, so they have to cross the yard, holding their little flannels in the rain and the wind. To hide their manhood, is the expression you're searching for. How sweet is that?

Petr made some kind of soup for me last night, bellypork and beetroot leaves. That's Lits for you. Mostly we speak English, though Petr has Polish too. Petr's plump, and older. He's worked in Kaliningrad and tells mad stories about mad Russians, and has a tattoo of the Kaunas devil on his arm.

But Virjilijs is an angel! He reads the English newspapers from the bins, and says his favourite novelist is, yes, you've guessed, Charles Dickens. He did
Hard Times
in school! His tattoos make him look like the Roid Boys, but he's not half as pumped up. And Kazia, they're so trusting. They showed me all the money they've saved. Hundreds and hundreds of pounds, all in plastic bags under the caravan floor. Fifties, twenties, rolls of tens. They count it every night as a ritual.

You're insane, I whispered.

Now you know our secret, Virjilijs said, we'll have to kill you.